


Veritas

by mellish



Category: Gideon the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Backstory, Blushing, Bromance, Camilla is so tsundere, Childhood Friends, I made up a lot of Sixth stuff, Letters, Multi, Palamedes is so pure and doesn't eat enough, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Romance, Platonic Soulmates, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21766489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: “D’you know how utterly deadpan you sound? I love how you’re always so honest, Camilla.”“Don’t saylove,” she grumbles. Pal just takes off his glasses and wipes them on his sleeve, as if that makes them any cleaner.In which Palamedes Sextus becomes the Master Warden of the Sixth, Camilla Hect becomes his cavalier primary, not enough peas are eaten, and far too many letters are written. Sixth House character studies, pre-canon.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 69





	Veritas

**Author's Note:**

> Palamedes and Camilla's bromance is my favorite relationship in this whole book, so this is me trying to reconcile how they got there.

Camilla is testing her arm for mobility when Palamedes careens into the clinic, panting heavily. “The results?”

She looks up into his gray eyes, noting for the millionth time how they look like light—have always looked like light, to her. They are lamps in her dark: hushed candles, forest fires. She would follow those eyes anywhere. Most days she thinks she never had a choice about it; from today, she’s _sure_ she doesn’t. She swings her elbow up, winces a little, offers him a crooked smile. “Swept the whole thing. Guess I’m officially your cavalier, Warden.”

Palamedes’ mouth does that funny thing where it tucks in at the edges, like he’s holding something back. He shifts his glasses higher up his nose bridge with _both_ hands. “Are you badly injured?”

“Not badly.” He steps closer. She can nearly feel him tremble, even if he’s several paces away. She is seized with the sudden knowledge that _this is real._ Her life will forever be reminding him to at least consume a day’s worth of calories; tucking a blanket around him while he drools on a thick tome about binding spells and barriers; trimming his hair so that he looks fractionally less unkept. It’s not so different from what she’s always done—except now she’ll be doing it as the _cavalier primary_. “You worried?”

“Of course I’m worried, you dope,” he says, reaching for her sleeve, a thoughtless gesture (except Pal is never thoughtless, is he). Once the gray fabric is in his grasp he doesn’t quite know what to do. They’re both hopelessly awkward about their joy, she realizes. At least it’s Pal. This is as good as an embrace. To cover his embarrassment, he adds: “You’re not supposed to make your necromancer worry.”

Something sharpens inside her. “I really shouldn’t. I’m fine, Warden. If it’s ever really bad I’d _tell_ you—okay? Stop looking like that. You’re too young for wrinkles.”

Pal opens his mouth as if to say _I do not have wrinkles_ , then shuts it. He’s got a semi-permanent dip of worry between his eyebrows already.

Camilla smiles. “You made me promise to keep you safe,” she says, tone even. “I keep my promises. From now on I’m never letting you out of my sight.”

“Great,” he says. “I’ll be counting on you then. Also, hey, I didn’t _make you_ —you chose that on your own.”

He surprises her by reaching for her hand, trapping it in both of his. She finds herself doing the same, so that they’ve got a double-hand-sandwich between them: his palm over hers, her knuckles over his. It’s reassuring: the pressure, the warmth, the way they fit together. It’s not a done deal until the ceremony, but she and Pal never needed much more than each other’s trust to believe.

#

There’s a twerp dawdling by the doorway of the secondary training room. A familiar twerp, Cam realizes. She completes her sequence of floor flips; stumbles the landing, because of the momentary distraction. “Focus, Hect,” Master Q snaps.

She ducks her head. Even at her age, Cam knows to manage her apologies.

“There’s someone,” she says, pointing at the door.

Q notices and sighs explosively. “Snooping scholars.”

“I know him.”

“Well then tell him to leave.”

She crosses the mat, avoiding the other warriors tumbling around her, and reaches the door. He’s open-mouthed, watching Sixth soldiers arcing through the air. She remembers this kid from family gatherings, amusingly tense events that happen a few times each year, when relatives can be arsed to peel away from their theses and policies and programs. At the last one, he’d argued with an older cousin, been absolutely _dogged_ about what an easy matter it was to surmise the molecular structure of an object through touch, give or take a few seconds—if only one had the talent and discipline. The conversation was boring and Camilla busied herself holding a headstand against the wall for as long as possible, only folding down carefully at the conclusion of their long-winded hissing match, whereupon the younger boy had scrubbed both hands through his hair and said, “I don’t know that it’s worth debating this, since I’ll prove how easy it is when I become the heir.”

 _When_ , she noted then, stretching carefully. _Not if_. If he could be such a confident brat, couldn’t she?

As the night wore on all the younger children ended up playing Guess-the-Famous-Necro. Palamedes got kicked out because he was answering too quickly, and wandered over to where Camilla was idly tossing and catching a kitchen knife, safely out of sight from adults. “You’ve got good reflexes,” he’d said. When she didn’t answer he just squatted near her, drew an enormous book out from somewhere in his two-sizes-too-large-robes, and read in companionable silence.

She touches his shoulder now. “Palamedes.”

He closes his mouth and turns to her. “Oh, Camilla.” (She’s surprised he remembers her name. Palamedes is notorious in the family, for his genius; Camilla, being a cavalier-in-training, is not. It’s only later that she learns he forgets nothing.)

“Why’re you here?”

“I’m lost.”

Wandered too far from his library, probably. He doesn’t look like he has a particularly good sense of direction, either. His extraordinary talent clearly lies elsewhere—even Camilla has seen the last round of necromantic exams. He’s much closer to his goal than she would have guessed at first. “You’re in Swordsman’s Spire.”

“Ah. Thought I took a wrong turn somewhere. No one’s holding swords though?”

“We’re doing gymnastics right now.” It’s a thin crowd; if any of the other Houses decide to siege the Sixth today, their paltry army can’t take them on. They’re _trying_ , with Camilla’s generation: made cavaliers a role of merit again, made the sword a passable alternative to the book. Camilla knew from the moment she held a blade that _this_ was the path she wanted. But she didn’t know _why_ until she heard Pal says those words: _when I become the heir._ The Necromantic Heir, he meant. The Sixth’s Master Warden.

“I’m gonna walk him back to the library,” she calls over her shoulder.

Someone messes up their backflip; there’s a joyless _crunch_ , followed by a groan. Master Q waves her away, massaging their temple as they loom over the injured student. She steps into the hallway, and Palamedes falls into step beside her. Something about that doesn’t feel right, somehow...but she _does_ have to show him the way.

“You’re training to be a cavalier?”

She lifts a shoulder as she rounds a corner and starts down the stairs. He keeps pace. Something in his voice when he speaks next makes her think he’s come to a kind of resolution. “That’s fine, but can you actually keep me safe?”

“What?” Camilla slows, coming to a halt on the next step. She glances at him. He’s gazing at her with those surprisingly piercing eyes—like he’s trying to decipher a puzzle.

“For when I’m the heir.” Again, that confidence. It makes her uneasy; it makes her blood run hot and cold. It’s terrifying. Exhilarating. There’s something of a promise in his question, a challenge: _if you can’t do this small thing for me, then it can’t be you. But I think it might be you_. He’s taking her seriously, she realizes. She ought to do the same. It’s been on her mind since that last family gathering; she’s gratified to learn that he has her same suspicions.

“Yeah,” she says lightly. “I can keep you safe.” It’s a promise as soon as it’s out of her mouth. As soon as she thinks it, even. Palamedes smiles; it turns his whole face bright as Dominicus. Camilla finds that she can’t help smiling back.

#

It’s a few months after Palamedes is given the title of Warden when he asks for her advice. On stationery. Specifically, does Camilla think the one with the gooby-eyed kitten, or the one with the delicate blush flower petals, is the prettier one?

“Uh,” she says, holding her elbow and crooking her arm. The dagger she sends flying misses the bullseye. She frowns. “I don’t know. Is this for that Seventh necro?”

“Yes,” he says, “And her name is Dulcinea.” He’s holding up the kitten letterhead like there’s some great mystery to it.

“You wrote her last letter on normal flimsy. Why not stick with normal flimsy?”

“Because.” A period, not a comma. Hm. He isn’t going to elaborate. Cam sighs.

“I’m sure she’d like either.”

“Help me _pick one_ , Cam.”

“The flower petals,” she says. “They seem to match her personality more.” _Because they’re dying, like her,_ she doesn’t add. That would be far too cruel. A strange, hard bitterness lurches within her. All of it’s cruel. Of course it would be like the Warden to look at a bunch of possibilities and pick the greatest challenge, the highest probability of failure. It’s been a year since he received the Seventh’s first letter, and she still remembers his starry-eyed expression from it, the way he walked around for days radiating longing. She’s not a fan of that dead-serious look on his face. She wants to take his mind off it—go over weapons data, ask him about the latest research in curative science (although, blast, that has to do with _Dulcinea_ too)—but she knows Pal won’t get distracted or lose his focus, not when it’s so important to him. With effort, she adds, “You can always send the kitten one next time.”

“Good plan,” he says.

She throws another dagger. This one finds its mark. “You know, I’m not officially your cavalier yet. I may not be the most qualified to give you advice.” Specifically advice involving girls and crushes, though she’s probably _less_ hapless with those things than he is.

“You’re my cav in all ways except legally—”

“Because there’s an _examination_ , Warden, just like you had one—”

“Yes, and they’ve come up with some silly rule you’re not to take it til you’re twelve. I know. It’s how we do things on the Sixth. I’ll wait, Cam, and you will too, but I need your services _now_.”

Camilla walks to her target and pulls out the knives so that he doesn’t see her flush.

“Anyway, nice aim,” he remarks cheerfully, before heading out the door.

#

The Sixth is not a fighting house. On the Sixth, you are good at books _or nothing._ Everyone knows this, from the toddler still learning their alphabet to the last living librarian who can recite, in wheezing breaths, the entirety of _Analects of the Saint of Duty, In Imagined Conversation with His Necrolord_. It is a wise house (some may say too wise). It is a practical house (some may say this has not served them particularly well). Its tall spires and shuttered metal living spaces, lightless and frequently airless, produce some of the finest minds each myriad, but their fighting technique and sword arms leave much (much, much) to be desired. The cavalier primary before last died in a show bounty, bleeding from the neck because of a badly timed parry. Camilla’s masters still wince at the memory, as if kicked in the gut.

Her training was created from a shift in theory and decades of being ground underfoot by basically every other house. “We can’t beat anyone on strength or inherited sacred technique,” Master A explained. “But we can and do have a much deeper understanding of the body, scientifically and medically. Not like the Seventh—a body is only fascinating to them when it’s nearly dead. We’ll learn, we’ll test, we’ll experiment our way to fighting prowess. _Fighting’s_ the key word. Whatever happens in this war, we don’t have the resources to make cavaliers for show. We’ll need everyone to be able to fight when it counts.”

Or, as Master R summarized: “We’ll teach you to put the _war_ in warrior.”

Bold words for the Sixth. By the age of ten Cam knew she’d be a better fighter than most masters fairly soon, but they could still teach her much. How to make her body work more effectively. How to conserve her energy in a drawn-out battle. How to look for potential weapons in every environment. How to fight with a ton of space, and no space; on level ground or up and down a staircase. How to manage every muscle: tighten for force, relax to prevent injury. Camilla cannot remember a time before she was training to fight for her life. It’s a slow week if she doesn’t have bruises. Since before she knew Pal she’d pushed herself for the honor of the Sixth, because she knew she could _do this_. The book is revered, but sometimes you need a blade.

A few hours each week are dedicated to cavalier primary training: etiquette, policy, diplomacy, a bunch of things that can be summarized as _feeding and care of one’s necromancer_ , like they’re a kind of moody succulent. Which, in some cases, Palamedes is. But Camilla feels she doesn’t _need_ to learn these things, that knowing Pal is enough. While others might begrudge them the time they spend together (pre-examination, which is basically how life is measured on the Sixth) it’s not exactly cheating. For one thing, very few people on the Sixth would actually like to be cavalier primary. It could, in all honesty, be one reason why they decided on the merit exams in the first place—official bloodlines notwithstanding. Most Sixth don’t want to be parted with their books; understandably, they don’t want to die.

Camilla wouldn’t call herself fearless, but she knows how to manage her fear. How to stay calm, and consider all options. Plus, she finds the brassy clang of striking swords rather soothing. And she knows, deep in her bones, that where Palamedes is concerned she’ll always do what she thinks is best for him, and vice versa. She learns to fight better because she’s been entrusted with his life. She also learns not to let it be known that they’re starting to get better at this. This secret is another weapon, and they have precious few left on the Sixth.

#

Okay, but—it’s nice making things official. For one thing, she’s released from the deep sea pressure, haunting her for seven years, of _what if it doesn’t get to be me_. For another, she moves into Palamedes’s room and finally has authority to fix all his shit, like she’s wanted to for ages. Palamedes attempts to make a fuss over it. He gives up once he realizes her system of cataloguing works better, and that she can supply literally anything he needs, anytime. That’s also the year they both officially enlist in Third Circle Curative Sciences (having tested out of First and Second via lots of cramming)—a damnable load of work, but Palamedes is determined to make good on all this blood cancer research, and Camilla finds it practical and interesting.

She learns a not-insignificant amount of necromantic theory by osmosis, sometimes even when she’s trying _not_ to, because Pal has the constant urge to talk to himself or theorize aloud. She doesn’t mind. There’s something meditative about polishing different weapons on her cot while Pal darts from one piece of tacked-up flimsy to another, three markers in hand and ink smudged on his forehead. She likes watching him work magic, too. He can do anything, or so it seems to her.

“I _can_ do everything, basically…with caveats. Plus I enjoy theory on principle, which helps. But certain things take more effort than others: bones are exhausting for me, and I avoid Eighth spells where I can.” Pal is chasing peas around on his plate, as if explaining may spare him dinner.

Camilla clears her throat. “That’s nifty, but you can’t work spells if you eat negative calories a day.” He begrudgingly eats a single pea, looks up at her hopefully, then eats another two when she glowers at him.

“That reminds me—I wonder if the Eighth will come next week,” he says, valiantly nibbling away at a half-tablespoon of potato mash.

“Next week?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. We’re going off-planet. Official heir business. It’ll be your first event as cav primary, right?”

Camilla blinks. He’s been deep in his Eighth Circle Thesis Defense, so it’s entirely possible he forgot, or maybe he’s just avoided telling her now because he’s awkward about something. She doesn’t narrow her eyes, but one eyebrow does lift of its own accord. “Where are we going?”

“Ida. It’s Corona and Ianthe’s birthday. I begged off last year on account of exams, but I can’t use that excuse every year…even if I do always have exams…plus, the elders said it would be good to show my face, and get them used to you.”

“Hmm.” It would be interesting to see this mysterious _them:_ the other House heirs and cavaliers. The last time Pal visited the Third, he’d gone with the former Sixth cavalier primary. At the official pledging ceremony the older man gave Camilla an embrace of such overwhelming gratitude she couldn’t decide whether to be sorry or pissed. (“Now I can finish my long-postponed thesis,” he said, completely without irony.) It’s prudent to stake out competition—she's analyzed tapes on the other cav primaries from show matches, and no matches are more infuriatingly compelling than Naberius Tern’s. (Not that the Sixth would ever challenge anyone; nor would they be challenged, because that would just be mean.) She’s also heard that the Third make amazing custard tarts, but from the way Pal’s eyes are avoiding hers, it’s clear that… “You’re hoping the Seventh will come this time, aren’t you?”

“Well—n—yes. You know I am.” He covers his forehead with one hand. “She’s not going to come, I think. She never does.”

Camilla wants to say something biting, something punishing—wants to say the truth. Wants to shake him and yell _Warden, of all the happy endings you could want for yourself, why’d you have to pick the one thing I can’t give you?_

The reality of that hurts, but she tries not to let it ache too much, because she knows it's infinitely worse for him. She hates Dulcinea Septimus; but whenever a new letter arrives, the Warden wears a radiant smile, and she thinks the Duchess of Rhodes might be a wonderful person after all. It’s so fucking complicated.

“She might go,” Cam says. Pal laughs.

“D’you know how utterly deadpan you sound? I love how you’re always so honest, Camilla.”

“Don’t say _love_ ,” she grumbles. Pal just takes off his glasses and wipes them on his sleeve, as if that makes them any cleaner.

“We’ll probably need new robes,” he says, mostly to divert the subject before Cam immolates from self-consciousness. “It’s a formal affair after all.”

“Hrm.”

“Don’t worry.” Pal puts his glasses back on. “They’ll still be gray.”

#

Camilla does not like the Third: not the way it sparkles, nor the treacly accents, nor the cloying opulence that makes her feel, with a deep shame, a little bit _sorry_ for the Sixth’s tax committee. But she does like Third deserts. They contain far too many calories than can be reasonably consumed in a week, and there is something grossly decadent about a fancy eclair when she _knows_ some families on the Sixth have to draw lots for sugar, but—it’s only once a year. She enjoys the people-watching, too. It’s interesting to see Palamedes interacting with everyone. He’s still himself, but there are slight inflections, different modulations, depending on who he’s speaking to. It’s like she’s seeing different shades of him: levels of exposure or secrecy that he doesn’t need when it’s just them. What _doesn’t_ change is how Pal thinks everyone else is keeping up with him, but then, he always thinks too highly of others.

Her necro is _highly honorable_ , she realizes. Camilla feels proud, then slightly annoyed. One of these days his golden heart might get him killed.

“Camilla the Sixth,” a grown-up says, good cheer highlighting the faint wrinkles at his eyes as he strides over and extends a hand. “Magnus the Fifth. Congratulations on your—er, acceptance? No, that’s not it, er— _prevailment_ as Sixth cavalier primary. Prevailment isn’t a word, is it.” Magnus has a kind smile, looks healthy in a way that’s comforting. Cam knows he’s married to his necromancer: there was a big to-do about the affair a few years prior, and there'd even been a little tele broadcast right outside the grand library so people could watch it between study breaks.

Camilla shakes his hand, amused. “Thank you.”

“Guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other at these gatherings.”

“Yes,” she answers, mildly.

The Sixth doesn’t have the kind of budget to attend _everything_ , but they do better than the Eighth (which detests anything with a whiff of _excess_ ), the Ninth (which has shown up to absolutely nothing for the last decade, on account of being mysterious and creepy), and the Seventh (because Dulcinea is on the verge of flatlining every hour, the way Pal talks about her). So: the first four houses, then, are the opponents-slash-allies Camilla gets exposure to. She and Magnus watch Corona, the exceedingly bright Third twin, throw her arms wide at the top of the winding staircase, looking like a giant bejeweled star. She extols the dinner. She sings praises of their estimable guests. Her drippy sister hangs beside her, calmly inspecting her fingernails as if this speech is the most childish thing in the universe. “And now,” Corona belts, “The House of Ida would like to present Prince Naberius Tern.”

The presentation turns out to be Naberius doing a choreographed routine with his rapier and a small shield. It’s not the offhand he typically favors, so there’s something very _scripted_ about his movements...but it’s still breathtaking to watch. Naberius is probably around Cam’s age; over time he’ll only get more graceful, efficient, dangerous. Cam can’t help the way she records every minute, how she wishes she’d brought her notebook to jot down moves to try later. After the distracting music stops and everyone has clapped in the same muted, well-bred style of everything else on Ida, a fresh serving of deserts is dished out. Camilla floats over to avail of something called a mango torte, and finds Palamedes in conversation with Abigail Pent, Fifth necromantic heir. She wears a slight air of tired academia, and is frowning at her custard.

Pal is in warming-to-an-argument mode. “I know it seems unlikely, but quite a lot of the Lyctoral records seem to intimate that they were indeed engaged in research pre-resurrection. Not scholars, per se, but they were definitely studying _something_.”

“I wish we could find out just what all that research was leading to. Warden, is it really impossible to borrow one or two originals?”

Pal’s face does that complicated thing it does, whenever he’s fighting a battle of pride on behalf of the Sixth: shutters gently closed. “They were given us for safekeeping, Lady Pent. There’s unfortunately no way they’d last the trip.”

“Fair,” she says, in a way that Cam feels could be used to shut down any argument against a weaker adversary. The topic migrates to the necessary _delicadeza_ in calling the dead, how the Fifth do it _sans pentagram_ in a pinch, while Camilla piles fruit slices and two glossy chocolates on a teensy golden plate and hands them to Pal, who eats them without complaint.

“Oh—Camilla the Sixth,” Abigail says, noticing her. “Pleasure. Goodness. Why all the heirs and cavs so _young_ this generation?” That last said more to herself in wonder. Pal and Cam exchange glances. Abigail notices herself and swiftly says, “It’s been a pleasure catching up, Master Warden. I should go find Magnus and make sure he’s not overdoing it on the wine, now that most adult heirs and cavs are retiring.”

“Are you having fun?” Palamedes asks, as Abigail moves away, then: “Hide me, Corona’s approaching.”

They manage to peel away from Corona Tridentarius only because Judith Deuteros angles past wanting more tri-color cake and gets sucked into a debate about frontline politics that swiftly devolves into airy sneering (Third) and bloodless stoicism (Second). Back in their guest room Cam leans her face out the window and breaths in the fresh air, marvels at the moon hanging outside their window, unthreatening. It’s beautiful for a minute—then terrible. There is something oppressive, almost claustrophobic, about the stark openness. She drags the windows closed, pulls the heavy velvet drapery over them, noting Palamedes’s strained little “Thanks.”

“You’re a real trooper, Warden, having to deal with all this.”

He’s reading a heavily-annotated manuscript, probably trying to finish it before Abigail picks it up the next morning. He doesn’t look up as she starts organizing their duffels, but he does say, “It’s much better now you have to deal with all this _with me._ ”

#

There’s an assassination attempt on Palamedes as they’re boarding the shuttle the next day. Subtle and terrifyingly sudden—Camilla’s loading their trunks, Pal is yawning beside her, when one of the escorts, quick as a flash, tries to pierce his neck with something like a screwdriver. Her reaction is startling even to herself: she grabs the perpetrator’s hand, knees his ribcage, has her rapier against his neck in no time. Panic dawns in his eyes as she presses down. Then suddenly he’s dead: a dart pierced just under his ear, blood streaming from both nostrils.

Camilla drops him to the floor, heart jackhammering, before standing in front of Palamedes with her blade still drawn, everything around them coming into crystal focus. _Keep the secret,_ she tells herself, though every nerve in her wants to draw blood right _now_. There’s a flurry as the Ida Royal Guard surrounds them, making angry soldier noises. By the time they’re back at the Sixth Corona will have sent a tearful transmission that they take all their guests’ safety _extremely seriously_ and whoever was involved was going to get a very public, painful execution; for the moment, though, there’s only a minute tremble shared between herself and Pal as they are hustled into the shuttle, given an extra defense corps.

The Sixth aren’t quite as intimate with death as the Fourth, and last week in curative sciences she and Pal had both laboriously scraped back the skin of their latest cadaver to inspect its tendons but still—still.

“They thought they could take us out, because we’re the _Sixth_ ,” Palamedes says, half bemused, half awed. He keeps touching the spot on his neck where the weapon would have met tender flesh. “Wonder what poison that was, or was it just supposed to strike a nerve?”

“Warden,” Camilla says, though she doesn’t know what she’s going to say next. _Must you always be so morbidly curious—_ yes, he’s a necromancer. _Have a care for your life sometimes—_ but that’s her job, isn’t it? _Don’t scare me like that_ —he doesn’t need to hear that, not from her. “You—maybe we should teach you basic defense.”

“You’re pacing,” he says. She stops, but keeps rocking back and forth on her feet. Like him, she’s caught between awe at what just happened and a fantastic bubbling fury that someone would try to _kill her necromancer_. “I’ll take whatever lessons you want me to,” he says, rubbing a crease between his eyebrows, “But I doubt it’ll matter much if you’re around.”

“That’s a big _if_.”

“You said you’d never lose sight of me.”

“I know,” Camilla says, gruff with irritation and lingering fear. “I won’t.”

“I trust you,” her necromancer says. “I know you’ll keep me alive.” It’s as final as knowing the end of a story; always has been. A different Camilla might have questioned what she did to earn this place at his side, but she knows her own scars, knows what they both sacrificed to get here. Knows that there is no one better suited to be the Sixth heir than Palamedes Sextus. Far be it from her to wonder at his selection of cavalier primary.

#

About Dulcinea: Palamedes sometimes reads her letters aloud to Camilla, while she’s doing stretches or sit-ups.

“ _The kitten has taken such a liking to Pro, it follows him around all day,_ ” Pal narrates. “ _My hand is killing me so I better stop. Til next time. Tell Cam I say hi._ ”

Camilla freezes.

“You told her about me?”

“Uh, you are my cav, of course I have. She knows I’m useless without you.”

Camilla mutters. She doesn’t know why she feels so offended. Maybe it’s because fully one wall in the Warden’s room is covered in articles and diagrams and notes under the header _Blood Cancer_ / _Incurable Hereditary Disease_. (After a while Camilla had to lug a whiteboard up several staircases so that he’d have more room to scribble.) Or maybe it’s because one time Pal asked Dulcinea for a photograph and instead got a series of sketches done with calligraphy pen. Dulcinea drew herself with masses of curls (loose and flowing, not like Coronabeth’s) and big sparkly eyes, like those girly comics Cam once saw at the Third spaceport. She also drew an ugly dog and a disturbingly accurate image of a torso’s muscle layer (this, in response to some question Pal asked re: Seventh preservation techniques). The self-portrait made Cam laugh, despite herself, though her good mood was immediately wrecked with Pal’s earnest gaze, telegraphing _see, she isn’t so bad, she’s a really lovely person_.

The next letter comes during the Resurrection Observance. It includes two pages of dreamy details on the Seventh House rites (all of which sound, frankly, odious and terrifying). Enclosed are two beanies: light gray for Pal, gray-brown for Camilla, with apologies that they may not fit quite right because she was just following a knitting book. “Also," Pal reads, whilst wearing a fuzzy smile, "I remembered you live on polar caps, so maybe this will keep you warmer?”

Camilla begrudgingly sends her own handwritten note of _Thanks —C._

A few weeks later: “Dulcinea says she’d love to know what kind of offhand you use.”

It takes Cam a moment to remember, in fact, which offhand she officially uses. “Tell her it’s a secret. But if she visits us I’ll show her.” She tries to say this with a measure of lightheartedness, but it comes off mean instead, in its impossibility.

She feels sorry for the way it makes Pal’s face go incredibly still—but she’s not sorry for _trying_ , which is the same kind of blind optimism that keeps this doomed romance lurching forward, letter after letter.

#

It’s not that they don’t argue—they do. When Palamedes Sextus wants to argue, he vacillates between yelling (“Why can’t you understand something so simple!”) and being infuriatingly cold and logical. When Camilla argues she folds in on herself, tighter and tighter, and her sentences get shorter and shorter. It shakes out well because eventually Pal tires himself out being angry, which is Camilla’s cue to break her silence and set things straight, or apologize if it was her fault—though usually no one’s to blame. The arguments, like everything else, become a pattern Camilla can decipher: the shape of their lives together.

It’s been easy and familiar for so long. Handing Pal a new notebook when his latest can take no more scribbling. Returning library books on his behalf, or re-loaning them as is often the case. Nudging him awake during service so that he catches the disapproving stare of the Elder Wardens opposite. One day Palamedes offers to cut her hair (“like you always do for me”); she is surprised and then quickly not at how meticulous he gets, trimming it just the way she likes, blunt at her chin. Pal continues to clear all of his exams, inexorably extending his knowledge of—well—everything. Cam continues sparring with as many different partners as she can find, and merely grimaces when they tell her she leaves too many openings ( _she knows_ , she’s trying to get better). Target practice with knives; practice with the rapier; practice with the dual blades. How she’ll always tell him to eat or else he’ll be a wraith and they don’t have enough soul-speakers to call him back; how Palamedes will always tell her to be more careful when she gets injured.

“You know, when I’m fussing over you getting hurt, it’s because I _need you functional to protect me_ ,” Palamedes says, smug in his clean argument.

“It’s not intentional, Warden,” Camilla answers. Pal sighs, touches her shoulder, tells her to call him when she needs her bandages changed.

They can’t stay upset at each other for very long. This many years in, they genuinely feel too old for this.

Camilla doesn’t tire of it. It feels like what she should be doing. If it goes on til eternity she won’t mind. Waking up just five minutes before Pal so she can make sure everything he needs for the day is in order. At night, going to sleep at the foot of his bed. He got into the habit of saying “Good night, Camilla the Sixth,” into the darkness. They’re like magic words that unwind her body, relax all the little stresses she accumulates throughout the day.

She never says anything back. The first time he did that she was too surprised to reply, and now the timing’s off and it would be too much to say anything. Besides, it doesn’t matter. He knows, anyway.

#

“I’m going to propose to Dulcinea Septimus.”

“You what.”

Palamedes is sitting at his desk, twirling a pen in his beanpole fingers. He already looks heartbroken, smiling in that dismal way that nevertheless makes him look more like a young man than some great necromantic heir. Camilla wants to say _you absolutely will not_ , but she knows that won’t change his mind. Instead she drops into her chair, hunches forward. Waits.

“I know there’s no chance of her accepting, Cam. I know if anyone finds out it’ll bring shame upon our house and there’ll be some interstellar scandal on all the tabloids. I know—“ he draws a shaky breath. “—she doesn’t love me.”

At nineteen Palamedes Sextus looks worn beyond his years, though there’s a boyish cast to his face when he looks up at her, sick with love and suffering for it. He wants her to berate him, she realizes. He wants her to reflect the stupidity of this idea at him, wants the inevitable verbalized so it might hurt a little less. Camilla holds his gaze, gently saying with her eyes: _if you’re doing this, you’re doing this._

“I know all that, but…but she doesn’t have much time left. I only want her to be comfortable, when it ends.”

“Yeah.” All those years of curative science for naught; all those promises, penned in Pal’s neat handwriting, useless as dust. Camilla is sucked into his agony. “It’s okay, Warden.”

“It really isn’t,” he says, but he leans into her, gratefully. Pushes his face into the space just beneath her collarbone, while she holds the back of his head, weaves his sweaty fingers with hers. He doesn’t cry, but they stay that way for a long time.

#

He _does_ cry when the rejection arrives. It’s awful. Camilla steals some brandy from the secret stash of the Fourth Circle maestros, the ones Palamedes detests so much, and they sit on the floor, backs against the bed, and drink together. By the third glass his eyes are bone-dry—the Master Warden isn’t really one for tears—but slightly hysterical, even more brittle than usual. Camilla doesn’t feel so great herself. Inevitability is such a bitch sometimes; just because she was right doesn’t mean she needs to be happy about it.

“It’s not that she doesn’t like you,” Camilla starts. It’s not the right thing to say, but she can’t help herself.

“I know that,” Pal answers, too deflated to be properly annoyed.

“And legally speaking it’s not like it was even possible.”

Pal makes a gargling noise of despair.

“Look, if you want, I’ll burn all of her letters so you never have to face them again.”

“No!” Pal yelps. More calmly, he repeats: “No, I—I want to keep them. They mean a lot to me. I’m not going to write her anymore, so—so it’s fine.” It’s very clearly _not fine_ ; it won’t be for a while. But Camilla knows they’ll survive this. Pal is stronger than he looks, and time is its own kind of antidote. They keep drinking, Pal sometimes reciting choice lines from Dulcinea’s letters, sometimes muttering to himself about how ill-advised a visit would be in the next twelve months (“Very,” Cam says, warningly). Eventually they hear the scuffling that indicates the House is waking up below them, and Palamedes curses and says he has a paper to submit in the afternoon. Camilla tells him he’s got time, he has to sleep. She bullies him into brushing his teeth and changing into sleeping clothes, then watches as he staggers to bed. He crawls in bonelessly. She drags her chair over to the side, pushes his bangs away from his face so she can touch his forehead.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Camilla the Sixth,” Pal mumbles.

Camilla is quiet. She can feel his pulse through her fingers. She isn’t a tender person, by choice and by nature, but right now she wishes with all her being that she could carry some of this hurt, take the merest sliver off his shoulders. Release him from the gravity of his grief. Palamedes Sextus is the most precious thing in the universe, as far as Camilla Hect is concerned; he doesn’t need to earn _anything_.

Eventually she says, “Goodnight, Warden.” But he’s already asleep, smiling a little broken smile. She watches him for a long time, heart aching.

#

In the weeks following the missive from the First House, Palamedes tries everything he can to create an impression of the Emperor, or at least the letter’s sender, using psychometry. The creamy paper refuses to tell him anything.

“It’s dead!” he says. “Just like our Necrolord Prime.” He snickers to himself, while Cam rolls her eyes. It’s not a great joke, but the fact that Pal is _joking_ again means he’s making progress. “I guess that just means we’ll have to let ourselves be surprised, come the Lyctoral Trials. God, it gives me chills to say that aloud.”

Something’s different about Pal, since the summons arrived. He has a purpose again. It’s lovely to see how it transforms him. He goes back to scribbling on all the walls. He throws himself into his studies with even more obsessive-compulsive abandon than usual. He gathers records on all the other Houses and their specialties, tries a different type of necromancy every week. “I think maybe even the Ninth will come,” he tells Cam, conspiratorially, whilst chewing a watercress sandwich. “I hear that Harrowhark Nonagesimus is absolutely _amazing_ at bones.”

Camilla, for her part, takes her cue and steps up her training regimen. More duels. More straight-up _brawls_. She is grateful to the other warriors, everyone else who tried for cav primary and didn’t make it, for putting up with her. But she knows it’s more group effort than anything, that they _want it too:_ the Sixth, able to hold its own in battle. They can hardly afford steel for weapons and the last time they ranked in any kind of cavalier fighting tournament was several centuries ago—but if they’re sending off the house heir for ascension to Lyctorhood, he ought to be accompanied by a cavalier the Sixth can be proud of.

Camilla only broaches the topic of a Seventh appearance once. Palamedes, to his credit, does not immediately shut the conversation down. He does slow his frantic scribbling: finishes the circle he’s been drawing and pauses. “I’m going to give her space,” he says, finally. “It’s awkward for everyone involved, and we’re not exactly there to socialize. I’m going to focus on the task at hand, which is after all a capital-t task.”

“Okay,” Camilla grunts. She doesn’t ask _are you hoping that when you become Lyctor you can save her?_ Or: _if she becomes a Lyctor, does that mean she gets to live forever?_ They’re terrifying questions, and she doesn’t really want to know the answers. She falls into practicing thrusts in her side of the room, lunging until her thighs and arm are burning comfortably.

Pal surprises her by adding, a little later, “I say that, but of course it’s going to be hard.”

“Hm?”

“I mean _ignoring her_ will be hard, because you know I don’t care for anything half as much as I care about her—” Camilla sighs deeply— “Besides you, of course.”

Camilla goes rigid as a brick. Palamedes looks back at her and laughs. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed _now_ , Cam; it’ll make me embarrassed too.”

“Stop being so shameless, then!” But her words have no heat, just the worn edges of an argument they’ve had countless times, all its foregone conclusions. He wins because _they both get it_. Even if they won’t verbalize it. Even if she’ll never say exactly what he means to her, which is everything.

He caps his marker and takes off his glasses. His eyes are the same gray they’ve always been: the color of home, the Sixth’s pride, tranquil as truth. Clear stone, or water. This time, she’s the one that crosses the room to him. She sets down her rapier, reaches out. She doesn’t hesitate, not after all these years. When Palamedes gives her his hand she tucks it into her own. Her palm over his; his knuckles over hers. She squeezes tight.

“Honestly, I’m a little scared,” he confesses.

She has never heard him say this, but it doesn’t surprise her. The task before them is immense. Not knowing _is_ frightening. But the Sixth are the Emperor’s reason, and the Emperor’s truth. Which is what she speaks to him now: “I’m not.” Because she isn’t—not with him, or about him. She knows her necromancer and his brilliance. If anyone is going to attain Lyctorhood, it’ll be Palamedes with his insane necromantic ability, big brain, overly chivalrous heart. “You’re going to be a Lyctor, Warden,” she adds, softly.

The words are like kneeling down at his feet, like ceremony all over again: an offhand held to her heart, a pledge tying her life to his. This is the destiny the Sixth has been building up to for myriads, boiled down to one nerd and his faithful soldier.

Palamedes smiles and closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he answers. “I’ll be counting on you to help me get there.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Palamedes and Camilla are second cousins [per the author](https://tazmuir.tumblr.com/post/187901634998/hello-i-loved-gideon-the-ninth-so-much-and)  
> 2\. I know they don't talk or act like children, ever, in this story. I like to think they're preternaturally old and wise for their age, being the Sixth, but in truth I was simply trying desperately to line up canon facts (Pal got lost in Swordsman's Spire when he was five? Cam became cavalier at 12?), and evidently I couldn't do that without making them all talk...like they do in the book.  
> 3\. I attempted to be canon-compliant, but it's extremely challenging to do that while also making up all kinds of backstory.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, regardless of this fic's faults. Thanks for reading!


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